Blood Debt
by Clover64
Summary: Blood can only be repaid in blood. It wouldn't be an act of vengeance, but of atonement. She would do it for him, because she loved him. She'd always loved him. Spoilers for the end of the game and Mage origin. Fem!Amell/Jowan, implied Fem!Amell/Alistair.


"_It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."_

- A Tale of Two Cities

Tavia Amell came to a stop. The lack of pigment in her skin prevented any paling that would have betrayed her fear to her companions. Only the hasty pace that had been brought to an abrupt halt revealed the woman's uncharacteristic hesitation. Frozen before the massive metal door, the albino was as still and as silent as a corpse – and due to her appearance, certainly looked the part of the undead as well. For what fate she was heading for, she might as well have gotten used to the idea of becoming a cadaver.

She hadn't.

Behind her, Wynne placed a hand upon her shoulder. The warmth transferred through the thin fabric of Tavia's Tevinter robes, but could not penetrate the cold casing that was her emotional guard. She shrugged it off, and did not look at the wisened mage. Her face was a grim mask of ice. All the comfort in the world wouldn't do her an ounce of good on this day. Sympathy was a stupid notion, too. No matter what the senior enchanter thought, the old woman could not empathise with the Warden's plight, not in its entirety – not without knowing what she did, not without carrying through with it as she would.

Her staff was steady in her hand, but only through conscious effort. Inside, she was shaking. Survival was telling her to turn back, to run; and it was not duty that kept her here. She did not owe Ferelden anything, the country and its Chantry that had kept her confined to the Circle tower for the better part of her life. She did not owe the people of this land anything, those whom had shunned and persecuted her for the power that she could not help. The power that would save them all now, in a bitter dose of irony. She did not owe some great sacrifice to a cause that claimed to be larger than her. None of these were the reasons for why she was about to go to her own death, voluntarily.

This matter may have been best left between her and the Maker Himself if the Chant was to be believed; but it wasn't _for_ some absent god who may or may not have existed from the mage's point of view. What would He have cared, anyway? As far as she was concerned, penitence was worthless to a being that had long since decided to ignore its people. So, no, her forthcoming act of atonement was not out of some misplaced sense of morality that had suddenly snuck up upon her.

It was for _him_.

Jowan.

_She had been only five when she was found and brought to the Circle. He had been six at the time, only a year older but having been at the Tower for just a little over two years. Magic had manifested itself in him young, like her, but he hadn't hidden it like she had. It had become her secret – hers and no one else's. The one and only thing that she could claim as her own. But not forever. No, the Templars and the Chantry they served would take that away from her, too, as they would everything else that she ever came to care for._

_Tavia remembered the Tower being cold, unwelcoming. And it wasn't singular in that sense, either. Its occupants were equally unfriendly and insensitive, with the younger ones giving her a wide berth because of her genetic mutation and the older ones too busy with their studies to pay a care to the lonely little girl from Denerim._

_Except for him, except for Jowan._

_She didn't know it at the time, but he would always become her exception. To anything, for everything._

"_Can I sit here?" he had asked, grey-blue eyes peeking out from behind a mess of dark hair._

_The young girl had nodded her assent._

_He had sat down._

_In his hand, he'd had a book that he'd been reading. She, too, had possessed a book but it had not been as large as his. Hers had been full of pictures, but his had contained some words. She had glanced at him, chancing a look every few seconds out of curiousity. Several times, he'd caught her. The third time, he'd spoken._

"_Why are you always alone?"_

_She hadn't known at the time, and had told him so. "I don't know."_

"_You look different than everyone else."_

_Tavia had been silent, prepared for mocking or worse._

"_But I like it," he blurted out and then seemed surprised by the words, though he couldn't have been more surprised than her. Still, she could remember the bashful blush that had crept up his neck and onto his cheeks._

"_Really?"_

_This must have encouraged him for he'd gone on with much zeal, as though he'd been keeping it all bottled up inside. "Yes! You and your hair are as white as snow from the Frostback Mountains!" He had been all smiles by this point. "Do you like it?"_

_She did then. For the first time in her whole life, she had been proud of the way she looked and for whom she was. He made her feel special, returning that feeling that had been stolen away by the Templars and mages alike. _

"_Yes."_

And then she had been his, and she'd never stopped being his since. Not when he had fallen in love with the wrong woman, one whom had been part of the very group that oppressed them; not when he had revealed himself to be a blood mage, the secrecy of it worst than the crime itself in her eyes; and not even when he had become an instrument of mayhem, bought and paid for by the traitor Loghain. He was a carriage wreck waiting to happen, but he was also Jowan. Just Jowan. Her best friend and closest confidante, the only person she would willingly lay down her life for had he asked her to.

She would now, though, even without his asking. Because Jowan needed her to, even if he didn't realise it. But that didn't surprise her; the male mage had always been rather dense, and for as long as they'd been friends she had assumed the mantle of protector – always pulling him out of the predicaments that he got himself into. This time would be no different, even if the threat was not so tangible and success even less so. Even still, this thing that she would do, defeating the Blight and slaying the Archdemon, it was a thing she would do out of love – for Jowan. And so Tavia could not regret it, despite her abhorrence of death.

It was a little bit funny, or so her morbid sense of humour would have her believe, that she had spent so long just trying to survive in a world that wanted her dead only to actively go to her grave now. The macabre thought made her want to laugh, and then cry; in the end, it simply made her stomach churn.

Her faithful hound nudged the side of her leg, making a sound that was close to a whimper. It had to sense what was coming, the inevitable end to this drawn out trial of hers. She let her hand fall to his furry head, stroking the Mabari with a tender touch that few others had seen and even fewer had felt. Jowan – named as such in a mocking memorial to her friend back when she was still feeling bitter about his betrayal – barked, and she knew it to be his way of conveying his intent to stand beside her no matter what happened. If only his namesake had been as loyal and devoted, she thought, but then banished the thought. Jowan (the man, not the animal) had been acting out of love initially, and so she could find no fault . . . for she now did the same.

A rational person would have found another way or abandoned the quest altogether, but love had always been in the business of making fools. Even the mage, it seemed, for all her cleverness could not escape its clutches.

"Lelianna," Tavia said suddenly to her third and final companion. "A song, if you please."

It was not an odd request, for the bard sang many tunes during the thick of battle, often as a distraction for their enemies. Today, though, the music would have an alternative purpose . . . though no others would know it. The truth was that Tavia did not want to die in the silence that would ensue once the beast and its brethren were slain. An eternity of silence awaited her, especially if damnation was to be her destination. As she passed from this world, she wanted to do so in sound; the alternative was to leave in a whisper, and that would not do. It simply would not do, at all.

"No matter what happens," she continued, her voice taking on a hard edge. "Do not stop."

The red-haired woman nodded, took a breath, and then began to sing the saddest song that Tavia had ever heard.

Yes, she decided, that would suffice.

With an austere expression, she slammed the head of her staff against the twin doors and blew them open. Then she was no longer walking to her fate, but running towards it. And the certainty of what awaited her could no longer be denied.

- - -

The debt of blood must be paid in full, wasn't that what the spirit in the Gauntlet had said?

It seemed altogether too fitting now as she stood only yards away from the collapsed creature. Her face was smeared with blood, crimson splotches staining her snow-white features. Some of it from the darkspawn, and some of it her own. They were bleeding out, both she and the creature. There was no more health poultices, no more Lyrium. Wynne was as exhausted as she, but had wanted to make an attempt to seal the gaping wound that Tavia now sported across her abdomen. She was confident that Wynne could have done it, too, for she had learned long ago not to underestimate the old woman. Instead of accepting aid, though, the younger mage had merely waved her away.

Had she been at full health, it would not have made a difference. No amount of vitality would save her now. Of course, Wynne didn't know that. Neither did Lelianna, or any of the others really. Except for Alistair.

She hissed in pain as her heart ached with thought of him. Alistair had been hers as she had been Jowan's. It had been unfair to him, she knew, for allowing him to hope. He had wanted to be to her what Jowan never had, but she had not been able to give him her entire heart. Because a certain blood mage already had it in his keeping, even if he did not know it – and she was certain that he did not know it. Even so, she had entertained the idea of a life with Alistair. Maybe, if things had turned out differently, she would have . . . No, he was to be king and even though he had come around to her way of thinking, she could never be his queen. Love or no. The power was tempting, as power often was, but that had been her undoing in the first place. Whoever it was that had said that power corrupts wasn't lying.

This was all beside the point, anyway.

Tavia threw her staff to the ground, and began to limp towards the sword of one of the Arl of Redcliffe's men. Each step sent a sharp wave of pain through her fatigued body. She pressed on.

"_So I'm not going with you, I see. Any particular reason?"_

_There were lots of responses that had passed through her head. _If I fall, you need to warn the Grey Wardens. You're going to be king. You belong out here with your men. I'm taking only those I need to help me fight._ But, in the end, she'd gone with the truth. "I'm not going to risk you getting hurt, Alistair."_

"_And you think I want you going in there and sacrificing yourself, you think I want you to die?" His frustration, born not from anger but from fear, had torn at her resolve but had not defeated it. She'd remained firm, unflinching in her decision. "But there's no use arguing about it, is there? We don't have time and . . . you are a stubborn, _stubborn _woman."_

"_You would do something . . . foolish," she'd said._

_They both had known it was true; Alistair was as much a victim to love's madness as she._

"_Maybe. I guess we'll never know, will we?" A frown had split his face then, and he'd looked down. "I guess this is the last chance we'll get before . . . this is finished, one way or another. Be careful in there."_

_She hadn't decided for sure until that moment what she was going to do. But her path had become suddenly and painfully clear, laid out before her as though there had never really been any alternative available. Reaching a hand out to him suddenly, she'd drawn him in close. "You and I both know how this ends."_

"_You're right." His voice had been agony incarnate. "I guess we do. I won't forget you. Ever. And I'll make sure they don't forget you either. I swear it."_

"_I do not need to be remembered, Alistair," she'd said. "But I must ask you for one favour. A last request."_

"_Anything. Ask, and it is yours."_

Tears began to stream down her face, stinging the cuts upon it. The cold handle of the steel sword was in her hand. She was afraid. Maker, how she was afraid. Yet, she marched on. Only a few feet separated her from the dying monster. She would be its death as it would be hers. But its death would give new life to the only person that mattered, and allow her one final act of atonement.

"_Tavia." She remembered the note of disbelief, of disapproval in his voice as she pulled away. In his eyes, there'd been a grief that she'd understood better than she'd felt comfortable with._

"_If you ever loved me, if you love me still . . . you will do this thing for me."_

_He nodded, slowly with reluctance but definitively. "Of course."_

_Tavia had been terrified that he would not, that he would refuse. Even his agreeing had not been enough to satisfy her. She'd had to have his promise. "Promise me, Alistair. Promise me that you will be true to your word."_

"_As I love you, Tavia," he'd whispered. "I promise that I will do as you ask."_

_She'd pressed her lips to his, one last time. "Thank you." And then she had pressed the enclosed vellum into his hands. "You will be a fine king, Alistair. Do not doubt it, ever."_

Her breathing sped up as she gathered the last vestiges of her strength and charged the dragon. A scream ripped from her throat as she dragged her blade across its stomach when it rose to meet her. Then, swiveling she sank the steel into its head, pinning it to the ground in the coup de grace.

Light exploded all around her, and was followed by impenetrable darkness.

Lelianna's voice, choked with emotion, faded away.

Tavia smiled.

- - -

Not long after that, Alistair was declared king and a funeral for the Hero of Ferelden was held at Redcliffe. In attendance were all of the woman's closest companions, and many strangers and soldiers alike that had come to pay their respects to the lady whom had saved Ferelden. The King of Ferelden gave a grand speech, full of love and respect for the still body on the dais, and closed with the announcement that the Circle of Ferelden would be rebuilt elsewhere and granted full autonomy from the Chantry. Had Tavia Amell been alive, this no doubt would have pleased her.

_If_ she'd been alive.

At the back of the crowd, concealed by a dirty cloak, stood a man. His features were shadowed, but the quiet trembling of his shoulders could have told any who cared to look that he was crying.

In his hands was clutched a note.

_To my dearest friend,_

_If you have received this letter, then I can only assume that Alistair has done as I asked in which case we both owe him our thanks. Since I am dead by now, whether I was successful in my endeavour or not, please pass along my gratitude._

_They will hail me as a hero, no doubt. They'll likely try to pin some altruistic reasons for my actions, as well. Or even say that the Maker Himself sent me! If that isn't a laugh, I don't know what is. But they can keep their fanciful notions, for they meant nothing to me in life and they'll mean nothing to me in death._

_I did this for you. I love you. This is why I'm not a hero, but a coward. I could not tell you when I was alive what you meant to me, and do so only now when it no longer matters. I hope you can find forgiveness in your heart for my cowardice, and maybe love of me as well? It comforts me even now as I write this to believe that there was more than friendship between us, even if it was never so. I may go to my grave a self-deluded fool, but I suppose there are worse fates._

_To the point, though, you are now a free man. So long as Alistair carried through with his promise, you are now pardoned of all your crimes and may return to the Circle if it is your wish to do so. With my death, I hope that I have atoned for every mage's crime of existence and that things will change for the Circle. It may be a vain hope, but I find myself full of them ere the end now._

_Blood can only be repaid in blood, Jowan. It was a fair trade: mine for yours. Don't let it go to waste. This is your second chance (or is it your fiftieth? I can't keep track anymore) so you better make do._

_So long as you do, my blood will have been well spent._

_Yours,_

_Tavia_

The King's accompaniment approached the dais, lifting their hero up and bearing her to the carriage nearby. She was to make one last journey to Weisshaupt, where she would be entombed at alongside other Wardens that had made the same sacrifice. A statue was to be built in her likeness, so that she would never be forgotten.

Jowan didn't need a statue to prevent him from forgetting her.

And he wept as he watched them take her away. His tears were not only for what he had lost, however, but for what he had never realised he'd had.


End file.
